


The More Things Change...

by WastingYourGum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Explicit Language, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/pseuds/WastingYourGum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's been here before...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More Things Change...

The policeman let out a long sigh and watched his breath curling into the cold night air.  
  
Early hours of Saturday morning; pissing rain, freezing cold; dragged out to an address known to be a junkie squat. One dead drug dealer nobody will mourn, who didn't even have the decency to be killed indoors. The body was out the back. Only the most optimistic of estate agents would call it a garden; cracked paving slabs covered with two foot high weeds, broken furniture, scattered rubbish and dog shit. Lovely.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from his constable. "Sarge? Ambulance crew says the kid'll have to go to A&E to get checked properly but you can talk to him now."  
  
For all the good that would do. The kid had been found lying semi-clothed and semi-conscious on a soiled mattress in a locked room upstairs. Not only was he high as a kite but he'd been beaten almost senseless as well. There was no way he was the killer but it was also very unlikely anything he said would be useful. So far he'd refused to even tell them his name.  
  
"Thanks. Are they done with Rattray's body yet?"  
  
"SOCO's are just tidying up. They'll be carting him out in a minute. Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?"  
  
"Oi - that's still a murder victim you're talking about, constable. Might have been drug-dealing scum - doesn't mean we treat this case any different."  
  
"Sorry, Sarge."  
  
"No, it's OK - I know it's harder to care about some of them than others, but that's the job. Go see if they turned up a weapon yet, would you?"  
  
"Yes, Sarge."  
  
The sergeant rummaged in his pockets for his cigarettes as he headed back through the house and out onto the street.  
  
The kid was sitting on the back step of the ambulance, hunched over and hugging his knees. Hair well overdue for a cut - and a wash. Skin-tight t-shirt, filthy jeans, scuffed trainers only held together by the shoelaces; not an ounce of fat on him. He was shivering but he'd shrugged off the blanket he'd been given. It was pretty obvious it wasn't the cold that was bothering him; pumped on adrenalin and twitching for a fix. Stupid kid.  
  
The 'stupid kid' chose that moment to look up and push away the dark curly hair falling over his eyes. It made him look even younger than the sergeant had first thought - ridiculously young. What was he? 16? 17? Christ. His eyes were wide, bright and bloodshot - staring at everything like his life depended on remembering every detail.  
  
"I'm 18 - and I'd like to go now." The deep petulant voice took the sergeant by surprise. He'd expected something thinner to go with the skin and bones. There was a hint of something else to it as well - softer, not London, more gentrified, rural.  
  
He held out the pack of cigarettes the way one would hold food out to a frightened animal. The kid snatched them from his hand, took one out and threw the pack back.  
  
He caught it and took out another cigarette for himself; used it as a pointer as he gestured to the blood seeping through a bandage on the kid's arm. "Only place you're going is to get that cut stitched up and then back to the station."  
  
"You can't arrest me - I haven't done anything."  
  
The sergeant placed the cigarette in his mouth. "Says you. I've got one dead body and one live one - guess who my prime suspect is." He flicked open his lighter and held it out.  
  
The kid hesitated before he leaned forward, lit his cigarette and took a long pull on it. "No, you know it wasn't me. If you thought it was, you'd have cautioned me already. I was locked in. You had to break the door down to get to me. And after that fucking I wasn't going anywhere in a hurry."  
  
The sergeant lit up and took a draw himself before carefully replying, "Are you saying the deceased sexually assaulted you?"  
  
The kid made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. "That would give you a nice motive wouldn't it? I'm saying there's other ways to pay if you don't have cash - and the Rat liked to play rough. He kept to his part of the bargain. Why would I kill him?"  
  
"Maybe he played a little rougher than you wanted."  
  
The kid blew out a long stream of smoke and licked his lips before putting the cigarette back between them. He looked up through his hair at the sergeant. "Maybe he didn't play rough enough," he said huskily - and winked.  
  
Christ, he was _blatant_. And gorgeous. And the worst idea _ever_. "Barking up the wrong tree there, son." The sergeant flashed his wedding ring.  
  
The kid's eyes flicked down to the sergeant's crotch and back up. "Sure. Whatever you say."  
  
"Look, help me out here. Did you see anything? _Hear_ anything?"  
  
"Oh, _loads_ ," the kid sighed dramatically. "All in glorious technicolour and high fidelity sound. The Rat always gave me top quality gear in return for services rendered. I doubt any of it would be pertinent to your investigation though, officer," he finished primly.  
  
The sergeant sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair. With a vocabulary like that the kid clearly had brains and a fairly decent education. It annoyed the hell out of him when people like that chucked it all away. "What are you doing here, kid? Trouble at home? Nowhere to go? I can put you in touch with people..."  
  
"I already know people. I've _met_ people - and they're all bastards. Besides, isn't it obvious what I'm doing?"  
  
"No."  
  
The kid laughed and spread his arms wide. "I'm having fun!"  
  
"Fun, is it? Wasting the brains God gave you? Selling yourself for a quick hit? Becoming some dealers junkie whore? Come on, son. Tell me your name at least. You're going to end up dead in a gutter somewhere and someone like me will have to go find your family and tell them what happened."  
  
"Don't bother - they won't care."  
  
"I'm sure that's not true..."  
  
"Oh you're sure, are you?" the kid snarled. "Well, that's alright then, isn't it? I'll just pop home, we'll laugh off the beating my father gave me before he kicked me out and you can go back to your charming _wife_."  
  
Shit. He could probably guess the reason for the beating too - same reason he wore his mother's wedding ring and was very careful about who he was seen with and where. "Even if you don't want to go home, you can do better than this. There's plenty of opportunities for someone with your brains."  
  
The kid shook his head. "I left a month before my exams so I've got fuck all on paper to show for all these brains. And have you tried to get a job with no fixed address? Quickly realised if I was going to be fucked it may as well be on my own terms."  
  
"So you just need an address?"  
  
"Preferably one without the word 'hostel' in it."  
  
The sergeant looked at the kid, remembering what he'd been like at that age. Lonely, scared, isolated, raging against the whole world for not giving him a chance - until someone had... "I've got a spare room?"  
  
The kid fixed him with that all-encompassing stare again and then smirked nastily. "Won't your wife object?"  
  
"No, you're right - there's no wife. And how did you know that, by the way?"  
  
The kid looked like he was going to launch into a long explanation but he changed his mind, shrugged and replied, "Just did."  
  
"You should be a policeman."  
  
"You should be a social worker."  
  
The sergeant laughed. "It's more than half the job these days." He dug out a business card and scrawled his home address on the back. "Look, God knows why I'm doing this but if you really want to do something better than piss your life away, come to this address - after you've got your arm sewn back together. As long as you keep off the drugs you can use my spare room, get a job, maybe some qualifications..."  
  
"Give you a quick fuck or a blowjob whenever you want?"  
  
"No, just don't give me grief. I'm not interested in any of that, I promise."  
  
"So why _are_ you doing this?"  
  
Bloody good question.  
  
"You remind me of someone. Someone who got a second chance he didn't deserve and took it. I think you'll take this one."  
  
The kid read the address then turned the card over. He looked at it for a good few moments then put it in his pocket. "I'll think about it."  
  
"Well you know my name now. Going to tell me yours?"  
  
The kid held out his hand. "Greg. Greg Lestrade."  
  
"Arthur Bradstreet. Pleased to meet you, Greg..."

 

* * *

  
Early hours of Sunday morning; pissing rain, freezing cold; called out to an address known to be a junkie squat. They found the kid on a bed upstairs - half dead, all stoned, pretty curly hair and an even prettier mouth. No question what he'd been there for; the evidence was all over him in needle marks and bodily fluids.  
  
"Sarge? Ambulance crew says you can talk to him now. He's still not giving his name."  
  
"Thanks, Donovan."  
  
Lestrade walked over to the back of the ambulance and sat down next to the pale, thin figure huddled against the door. A penetrating gaze studied him down to his bones as he held out his pack of cigarettes.  
  
"So... care to tell me how you knew DC Donovan is newly transferred?"  
  
The young man took a cigarette and then proceeded to light it with Lestrade's own lighter which he'd been certain was in his pocket on the other side."...Just did."  
  
"You'd make a good policeman."  
  
"That makes one of us."  
  
Lestrade could almost have laughed - if the kid wasn't so heart-breakingly young, thin and alone.  
  
He dug in his pocket for a business card...


End file.
